by David Mark
‘Saw you,’ he says, in an accent that is unrecognisable from the one he spoke to the two men below deck. ‘The ash-blonde. Catches the light. You look like a fucking iceberg.’
‘And you look like Count Fucking Nosferatu.’
They stand in silence for a time. They have known each other many years, this attractive woman and repugnant man. Have fought on the same side. Fought one another. They no longer know who the enemy is, but both are very good at what they do.
‘I wasn’t sure how much was fake,’ she says, and he hears the rustle of silk as she fishes out her cigarettes from their silver case and lights them with the Zippo she keeps in the elastic of her suspenders. ‘Cold bitch. Evil bitch. Worse than the people she locks up… I wasn’t sure how much of what you told them about me you really meant.’
He turns to her. Pulls a cigar from the pocket of his coat and lights it with a match held beneath his thumbnail. He puffs out a greasy ring of smoke. Shrugs. ‘Neither was I.’
They leave together, stopping at an after-hours pub and talking, quietly, in a corner booth until neither of them can stand, or speak or keep up the lies without fear.
Later, the detective chief inspector and her number-one covert operative will receive commendations for their part in bringing the two vigilante killers to justice. Neither will attend the ceremony. By then, the dying man will have all but forgotten who he briefly invented. He will already be pretending to be somebody else.
4
The new couple arrive mid-afternoon. They’re staying in the second cabin, sandwiched between Mr Roe and an American college professor enjoying some tedious find-your-ancestors genealogy trek. Mr Paretsky’s his name, which sounds about as Scottish as vegan cuisine. He’s been telling me that he’s a “true Celt” ever since he arrived, which sounds weird when said in a Texas accent. Apparently his family came from Strontian, just down the road from here, and left for the New World in the 1880s. I’ve told him not to get his hopes up about finding anybody who remembers them. He’d nodded solemnly at that, as if I was offering some sincere pearl of wisdom, and I’d been too embarrassed to tell him I’d been taking the piss. I’ve met his sort before. I guarantee by the time he goes home he’ll have ordered a kilt in the clan tartan and commissioned a family tree on yellowed parchment, tracing his lineage back to a Gaelic king.
Theresa finishes cleaning the room about half an hour before they turn up. She’s a help and hindrance in one. She only comes and cleans three days a week, and they’re three more than I’ve asked her to. I’ve told her half a dozen times now that I can’t afford her and that there’s no job for her here anymore, but she just keeps turning up anyway and I find myself paying her wages just to avoid having another awkward conversation. We’re not exactly friends, but we do have enough in common to be able to have a gossip. It’s weird the way we switch roles once she’s finished doing the lodges. One moment she’s the cleaning lady and I’m asking her if there’s any way she can scrape the grime from under the taps in the bath, and the next we’re putting the world to rights over tea and home-made biscuits and she’s making fun of me for not remembering anybody’s names or have heard about what such-and-such is getting up to with you-know-who. She’s better than a newspaper, is Theresa.
She’s lived here the best part of twenty years, which doesn’t make her local but makes her a damn sight more in tune with the peninsula than me. My two years is nothing, even if I did provide plenty of material for the gossips when I threw Callum’s stuff out the Velux window and burned it on the front lawn.
‘Nice couple?’ asks Theresa, sitting down on the windowsill and leaning against the glass.
‘The new arrivals? Seemed fine from their emails.’
‘No, I’m saying. The ones who’ve gone. Place was clean as a whistle. Needn’t have changed the sheets.’
‘You did though, yes?’ I ask, worrying.
‘Yes,’ she grumbles, tutting at me. ‘If it hasn’t been shagged in, a bed’s clean, if you ask me.’
‘That’s inspirational.’
‘Cleaner than the Birmingham lot…’ she begins, dunking a piece of flapjack in her mug. ‘Oh, I still have nightmares. I still can’t work it out. I mean, how did she…?’
We have a laugh, and I feel better. I enjoy these moments. Theresa has got more children than she knows what to do with and she brings an air of experience and calm to my manic household. Lilly is watching TV in front of the fire, lip-syncing along with Peppa Pig. I only let her watch two episodes a day; I can’t stand the programme myself. There’s no dressing it up: Daddy Pig looks like a cock and balls. That can’t be good for young minds.
‘Nice to see you smiling,’ says Theresa, wiping her mouth with the cuff of her jumper. ‘Look like yourself again.’
I take her in, sitting there on the windowsill like a rare bird on a perch. She wears a pink-and-white gingham top. Blue leggings and neon pink Crocs. She’s a meaty creature: big ham-hock arms and ram-bollock jowls, but she’s got a sparkle about her that’s got as much to do with her zest for life as it does her glitter body spray and big pearlescent grey hair. She’s probably the person I find easiest to talk to.
‘Bit of a row with Bishop,’ I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
Theresa gives me an I-told-you-so look. She’s not a fan. ‘Man’s a gobshite. And you, all those years with your childhood sweetheart and the next minute this stranger’s swooping in and bringing flowers and chocolates and telling you you’re a stunner. Sounds fishy to me.’
‘Oh thanks.’
‘You know what I mean. You are all those things and I know many men can be opportunists but it just seems a bit bloody convenient. I mean, who is he?’
I turn away, glaring through my own reflection to the shifting quicksilver of the lake. The sun’s sinking back below the waterline. The kids will be home soon. They’ll want feeding. There’ll be homework. Lilly will want more than I can provide. It’s all too much sometimes. Too much for one person, and it was hard enough with two.
‘He was asking about you long before he came and charmed you,’ says Theresa, watching the sunset. ‘Otter, look,’ she says, quickly, pointing past me. ‘Rolling about in the bladderwrack, down by Wilkie’s boat…’
I turn, trying to see what she’s pointing out. I can just make out a small, sleek outline: a greasy silhouette slipping nimbly over the green-coated rocks towards the water’s edge.
‘He wanted to tell me something today,’ I say, sheepishly. ‘It wasn’t a good time. Lilly was acting up, and then Mr Roe arrived and there was a bit of argy-bargy…’
‘Oh yes?’ She sits up like a meerkat, scanning the horizon for gossip. ‘He’s a funny fish as well. I’ve seen him walking up and down the treeline with his camera but I don’t think he’s sat still long enough to get an actual picture. Not well, is he? More pills in his bathroom cabinet than they’ve got on special offer in Boots.’
‘You shouldn’t be looking!’
‘I wasn’t. I have eyes, and this stuff just sort of passed into their range.’
I try to look unimpressed. Can’t keep it up. ‘What’s he on?’
‘Haven’t heard of most of it and some’s in a foreign language.’ She squints, trying to tweeze out a memory. ‘Dia-something. Not the one that chills you out. Anyway, high dosage. And you can see he doesn’t look well. He cleans the toilet after he’s sick but it’s not a professional job. Splatter-spray on the bathroom mirror too, like he’s been coughing his guts up. Looks like he’s three days dead, that one.’
‘He didn’t take to Bishop,’ I say, thinking back to the unpleasantness of earlier. I’ve tried to call him but he’s not answering. Sent a silly photo and lots of question marks. There’s not much more I can do. I can’t help but wonder what he wanted to say, but I also know that whatever it was, the moment was definitely wrong.
‘You should be a copper,’ I say, swivelling around to face the door just as the headlights gleam through the glass. I can see the outline of
a man, one hand to his forehead, salute-style, as he peers through the glass at where we’re sitting.
‘Are you serious about him?’ asks Theresa. ‘I know Callum’s done wrong but if you wanted him back you could get him back. He wanted attention, that’s all.’
‘He’s got plenty,’ I say, snarling. I take a breath, composing myself before answering the door. Apparently I have a tendency to look through people. I don’t have a welcoming visage. I’m not sure what to do about that, really, other than have Welcome tattooed on my forehead.
‘Oh thank goodness!’ says my new guest as he stands on the doorstep, damp and shivering, looking for all the world like the sole survivor of an expedition plagued by sub-zero temperatures, cannibalism and thrush. I know the roads aren’t great and the forest can look plenty scary when the light starts to sink, but he still seems to be unnecessarily stressed.
‘Hello there!’ I say, brightly. ‘I’m Ronni. Ronni Ashcroft. How was the journey? If you give me a moment I’ll show you where to park…’
I stop. There’s something not right. He’s a tall man, with a big grey moustache and a hairline that has receded to a perfect horseshoe shape on his crown. He’s dressed in his best touristy travelling clothes: striped jumper over long-sleeved shirt, with multi-pocketed combat trousers and hiking trainers.
‘I thought I hit somebody,’ he says, and his breath catches in his throat. ‘I’ve been driving since this morning. I’ve had my coffee breaks and had the window down but I think I almost dozed off as I passed the last village and then there was this shape in front of me and I swerved…’ He closes his eyes. ‘I didn’t hear a bang. But there’s a smudge on the headlight.’ He stops talking. Lets out a long slow breath and composes himself. ‘Sorry. Sorry. All good. Just a long drive. When you said you were out of the way you really meant it, didn’t you?’
I take a moment to process this. I’m no stranger to driving tired. The light here can play tricks on you. The way the trees cast their shadows on the road; the way the water seems to reflect a hundred different skies all at once; haphazard likenesses moving like a strobe light. I feel for him. It’s no way to start your holiday.
‘Is your wife with you?’ I ask, peering past him. In the passenger seat of a big sensible Volvo, a small woman with an iron-grey bob sits glaring grimly at the twin circles of illumination being cast by the headlamps. Two big yellow orbs, each full of swirling rain, and beyond, the impenetrable mass of forest and rock and river that form the boundary at the rear of the house. After that it’s all wild land. Miles and miles of bleak, black nothing. It’s bliss.
‘Want me to come check your car?’ asks Theresa, behind me. ‘Sorry, what was the name?’
‘Trulove. Branwell. Other way around, actually. Branwell Trulove.’
‘Christ, you must have got bullied at school. You sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ he decides. ‘Could I perhaps have a small sip of water?’
‘You can have a big old gulp of the stuff for me, pal,’ says Theresa, and her accent slips back into Glaswegian. She sticks a glass under the tap and hands it to him. ‘You don’t think it might have been a deer, do you? They enchant you lot but they’re a menace.’
‘Us lot?’ he asks, sipping from the glass.
‘Tourists. Stopping on the only bloody road around the peninsula to ooh and aah at the mighty stag, while some of us are trying to get home in time for Countdown.’
He seems much better now. I take the glass and leave Theresa to entertain him while I grab my coat, boots and key ring and let myself out the sliding doors at the back. It’s bitterly cold and the rain seems to come from every direction at once but it’s only a couple of hundred metres to the old barn. I can see the light on in number one but I know there’s nobody home because the occupant is out doing his family research. It’s all black at Mr Roe’s place. He’s obviously found a pleasant way to pass the day.
I fumble with the keys and push at the door to number two. Theresa’s done a good job. It’s as welcoming and cosy a space as we could come up with. Tartan wallpaper on two facing walls and a low, heather-coloured paint to the other. Photographs of local landmarks and a great old Ordnance Survey map in a big frame on one wall. A tin of shortbread, home-made flapjack and two miniatures of Highland whisky are laid out in a wicker gift basket on the bed. The lights are set in a frame of interweaving antlers and the bedspread is all thistles. It couldn’t be more Bonnie Scotland if it offered a bunk-up with the Loch Ness Monster.
From behind I hear footsteps. Quick, sudden: moving rapidly over wet grass. I turn around, expecting to see the new visitors, hurrying through the rain. Instead, I catch a glimpse of a disappearing shape: a blob of spilled ink, tadpole-black, disappearing around the gable end of the house, head down.
‘Gee, he was moving some!’
I give a little yelp at the sudden booming voice in my ear. Mr Paretsky: a bear of a man, with a beard you could lose a cat in and so much rain on his glasses it’s like talking to a huge, hairy fly.
‘Oh you nearly did me in,’ I say, clasping my hand to my chest like a maiden aunt in an old movie. ‘New arrivals,’ I explain. I turn into the wind, glaring at the spot where I’d felt sure I’d seen somebody running. ‘Did you say you saw somebody? Have you been there long?’
‘Just back,’ he says, taking off his glasses. I get a whiff of seafood and beer. ‘I thought it was your gentleman. The man with the gold teeth? Is it Bishop?’
I chew my cheek, but am spared having to think about it further by the arrival around the far side of the property of Mr Trulove’s car. The headlamps throw big spotlights onto the trees, clinging to the slope of the rocky hill. There’s a little waterfall halfway up, before the water disappears underground and re-emerges near the house, surging, white-tipped beneath an old bridge and on into the loch.
‘I saw your other guest as well,’ says Mr Paretsky, lowering his voice. ‘I popped in for a pint of conviviality and saw Mr Roe there looking considerably the worse for wear. The man certainly knows how to drink, but I don’t think red wine with whisky chasers is anybody’s idea of healthy. He’s spending, so they’re tolerating him, but a wise landlady might see if they could head off a tricky situation.’
I thank him, meaning it. I’m not unpopular here, but nor do I have any currency with the locals. I’m an outsider, and if my holidaymakers cause a problem, it reflects on me.
‘This the one?’ yells Mr Trulove, parking in the little paved area. He gives a nod of thanks, seemingly recovered from his ordeal. As she gets out the passenger side I hear his wife complaining that it’s a long way to walk with the bags, and that the accommodation seems a lot smaller than it did online.
I drop a set of keys on the mat, and hurry back to the house. Theresa is waiting inside, coat on, bouncing Lilly on her lap. Through the dark glass behind her I see the school bus pulling up. Atticus and Poppy tumble out, their coats held on their heads by the hood, flapping loosely like capes. They run over the damp front lawn and bang their way into the kitchen, bringing the smell of the outdoors and whatever spicy snacks they devoured on the way home.
I put my arms out, hoping for a cuddle. They manage a smile, then go straight to Lilly. I can’t complain – she’s much cuter than me.
‘Missed call,’ says Theresa, apologetically, nodding at my phone. ‘Bishop, five minutes ago. And I remembered that brand. Dihydrocodeine. You don’t want to be mixing that with alcohol.’
I can feel my stress levels building. I want to talk to Bishop. I’m getting all sorts of bad vibes today. I’m worried about him. He seemed so strung out this morning and the more I think about it, the more I realise that I didn’t do anything to make a difficult situation easier on him. I have an overwhelming urge to apologise, or make it up to him somehow, but I know so little about him that I don’t even know what would be appropriate. I know he likes records, but what would be a good present? I feel out of my depth. I snatch up my phone and read the text that Bishop had a
ngrily typed out when I failed to answer his call.
Forget it, then. Wanted to tell you the truth about me. Maybe you’ll never hear it now. But if you hear bad things about me or I don’t turn up one day, just know this – I really tried my best.
As I head out the door, there’s a feeling in my heart a lot like fear.
5
My house is called Murt Gorm Croft and sits at the foot of a hill, midway between Salen and Kilchoan. It’s almost a mile to my nearest neighbour, and their house is only ever occupied during the summer months. The owners can afford to close during the winter. I can’t. I have to chop my prices down to virtually nothing if I want to guarantee at least partial occupancy during the bleak spell between November and January – only briefly enlivened by Christmas and Hogmanay.
Now, in the fourth week of January, the peninsula is barely inhabited. As such, the locals feel free to put their foot down when driving on the slick, winding road that hugs the outline of the land. I’ve never found the time or the money to buy a car that’s suitable for the local terrain, but the old Peugeot hasn’t let me down yet and I’ve hit two stags, a motorcyclist and a Scotch pine since moving here. I can never decide if that makes me lucky or unlucky, or both.
It takes twenty minutes to reach the cosy, white-painted pub that serves as an entry point to the tiny village of Kilchoan. It’s quiet to the point of deathly, but it’s a bleakly beautiful spot. The gale whips in off the loch like the lash from a whip but it carries with it an uncanny ability to strip away all the tangled baggage of the day. To take a walk to the water’s edge is to invite a bombardment from the elements. I’ve never come back from Kilchoan without pink cheeks, tired calves and considerably fewer woes.
I park up between a flat-bed pick-up and a VW Campervan and have to hold the door handle tight to stop the wind folding the door flat against the front panel of the car. Then I’m running through the swirling rain and the gathering dark and banging through the big wooden door and into the bar.